


Excision

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Series: City of Blood [5]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Amputation, M/M, bodily trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 17:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10443705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Rhys doesn't know how long he can go on living like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Conclusion! Thanks for sticking with me through the long gap between the last piece and this one. Thank you also as always to [Jill](http://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com) for holding my hand while I wept through the writing process.

Rhys is silent for the rest of the evening, and the only thing he says as Jack climbs into bed is, “ _ Did you know about this? _ ”

Jack rushes to reassure him that he hadn’t, of course not, and that it doesn’t change anything between them - that’s a lie of course, but Rhys appreciates the effort, distantly. He can’t look at Jack right now so he rolls over and stares at the wall. It’s a long time before he hears Jack’s breath even out into sleep, and even longer before Rhys slips under himself. His dreams are full of silver and green.

The next few days are among the longest of Rhys’ life; although he supposes bitterly that that doesn’t mean as much as he once thought it did. It worries Rhys that he doesn’t know where the past that the City made up for him and his “real” memories begin. Try as he might - and he does try, scouring his mind for some hint of falseness, some glimmer of unreality - he can’t find the seam between where the city ends and he begins. It all feels real. Rhys stares at the ceiling, listening to Jack sleep restlessly beside him, and wonders if he even knows what  _ real _ is.

Jack has never been shy about putting his hands on Rhys before, and if anything he touches Rhys even more now, so it takes Rhys a while to realize that Jack is scrupulously resting his hand on Rhys’ shoulder or back or neck - anywhere but Rhys’ right arm. Rhys desperately wants to lean into it, but -.

_ I always know where you are _ , Jack had said.

_ I did have to help him along _ , the City had said.

Rhys lifts his right arm and spreads his fingers, watching them glint in the dull glow of the city at night, and wonders.

* * *

Rhys tells himself he doesn’t have any place in mind when he finally leaves Jack’s townhouse. He tells himself this as he shifts his feet wider against the sway of the subway, as he gets lunch in a quiet park, as he crosses the river glittering in the afternoon sunlight. He’s just out walking, out taking in the city - and he can’t hear it, not the way that he knows Jack can, but he knows that it can feel him, now, so Rhys doesn’t even dare  _ think  _ about anything like a destination as he takes the turns at random. It’s just a coincidence if his path takes him across town. Rhys stares up the stairs to City Hall as the sun slips under the skyline behind him and tells himself this was an accident.

As if anything in his life has ever been an  _ accident _ .

Rhys shoves that thought firmly down along with the rest and keeps his mind studiously blank as he takes the steps two at a time. This is his choice. It has to be.

His right arm twinges as he passes through one, two, a multitude of doorways. Clearly the Mayor has been stepping up his protection, but just as clearly it’s nothing the power that lives inside of Rhys’ arm - to the power that lives inside of  _ Rhys _ . Nobody stops him. In fact, the gazes of the guards at the entrance and the people in the hallways seem to slide right over him, and Rhys tries not to feel uneasy about that, tries to act like he belongs.

As if he belongs  _ anywhere- _

Rhys shoves the door to the Mayor’s office open. He can’t start to think like that, he  _ can’t _ , or he won’t stop.

The Mayor pauses mid-signature, then finishes and puts his pen down. “I see you learned your manners from  _ him _ .” There’s no mistaking who he means. “Got you playing errand boy now, does he?” The Mayor’s hand moves out of sight under the desk.

“No, I -” Rhys clears his throat and tries again. “I’m not here because of Jack.”  _ Not entirely. _

The Mayor’s hand doesn’t move. “You came alone?”

_ As alone as I ever am. _ Rhys stomps on that thought, but something must cross his face because the Mayor cocks his head, eyes glinting with interest. “You said you could help me be -”  _ normal again _ , but his throat closes up on that because he never has been normal, has he?

But the Mayor doesn’t need to know that.

The Mayor leans forward. “And in return you’ll tell me what I want to know about Lawrence?”

“No.” The Mayor scowls but Rhys forestalls the coming complaint by raising his right hand and pulling off the glove. “In return you get this.”

The Mayor’s eyes fix on the gunmetal fingers.

“It’s a direct conduit to the City.” Rhys is impressed by the way his voice doesn’t shake. He wiggles his fingers and watches the Mayor’s eyes track the movement. “Transmuted by moonlight. Not even Jack knows what it can do, not really.”

The Mayor gets up and comes around the desk. “Sit.” His hands are unfriendly on Rhys’ shoulders. He pulls back the jacket and sweater from Rhys’ shoulder, prodding at the line where flesh turns into - something else, and Rhys tries not to think about how the dull pressure is nothing like Jack’s touch, nothing at all.

“This could kill you.” The Mayor doesn’t sound too concerned about that. “The blood loss alone - I’ll do the best that I can, of course, but I can’t make any guarantees.” His eyes are lit with greed, and Rhys knows that he has him.

“I know.” Rhys has thought about it. There is no way forward for him that doesn’t involve risk, and this way at least he knows who’s pulling the strings.

The Mayor hums, and lets him go. “Why the change of heart? I have to say I didn’t expect to see you back here after -” he shifts on his feet. “After the last time.”

Rhys shrugs his clothing back into place and presses his lips together. There’s too much to say and none of it he wants to share. Rhys wants to be with Jack, wants it almost more than he knows how to say - but that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t know if it’s  _ him _ that wants it, or if there is any  _ him _ apart from what the city has built. This all started with the arm; the City hadn’t seemed to be able to touch him in the same way before then. If he can root that part out, if he can dig out the tendrils the City has dug into him...Rhys doesn’t know what, if anything, will be left, but if there’s any part of him that’s separate, anything that’s  _ Rhys _ and not  _ the City _ -

The Mayor can have the arm. The rest is Rhys’ to keep, for as long as he can hold it.

The Mayor seems to realize that’s all he’s going to get and shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He rocks back on his heels. “This is extremely short notice, you understand, but I think we can help each other out. You made the right choice, kid,” he says, turning away to rifle through his desk. He comes up with a pair of handcuffs with a familiar sigil etched into them, and Rhys fights not to flinch as they  _ snick _ closed around his wrists.

The Mayor pats his hand with patent insincerity. “Just a precaution,” he says.“You understand.”

Rhys flexes his fingers as the Mayor moves away. His right hand responds sluggishly, and his wrist feels cold and dull where the metal sits against it. It’s the first real sensation he’s felt on it outside of Jack’s touch since that night in the green.

Rhys feels something shift inside of him, like a sudden elevation change. The temperature in the room drops, and Rhys know that somewhere out there, Jack knows what he’s done.

Rhys looks up and meets the Mayor’s eyes. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast.”

The Mayor bares his teeth but the whites of his eyes are showing, as if he too can feel the increasing pressure in the air. He jerks Rhys up out of the chair and half-steers, half-drags him over to an elevator inset into the rear wall. Rhys tries to breathe evenly - this is what he wanted, this is  _ his choice _ \- but his ears pop on the ride downward in a way that a five-floor journey just can’t justify. The basement feels colder than even an underground level should, and Rhys would have stopped in the doorway of the room the Mayor heads to if a firm hand on his shoulder hadn’t dragged him over the threshold. Whatever purpose this room originally served, Rhys is pretty sure the current configuration doesn’t appear on any blueprint. The pipes lining the walls indicate it may have been a long-ago boiler room, but renovations over the years have left only abandoned fixtures and a rusted drain in the center of the floor.

At least, Rhys hopes that’s rust. There’s low block on the far side of the room, and Rhys is trying not to think  _ altar _ but it’s hard given the proximity to the drain, the implements on the wall, and the...stains. The Mayor pushes Rhys down, undoing the cuff around his left wrist and reattaching it to a ring set into the block so Rhys is flat on his back with his right arm stretched out at an uncomfortable angle. Rhys stares at the water-stained ceiling and fights the bile rising in his stomach, and as much as he dreads what’s coming next he has to bite his tongue on  _ hurry, hurry. _

He  _ wants  _ this. This is the only way forward for him, the only way he has any chance of being his own person. But that doesn’t stop the terrified jerk against his restraints when the Mayor reappears in his field of vision with a  _ very _ large knife.

“I’d tell you this won’t hurt,” the Mayor says, drawing his first two fingers down the side of the blade. It seems to heat in his wake, glowing as if the Mayor has dipped the knife in flame. Rhys can smell ozone in the air. “But I think we’re beyond lies, at this point.” He slices the fabric covering Rhys’ arm and chest away, and even the faint brush of the knife tip leaves lines of cold fire behind. Rhys shivers, and not just from the damp air underground air cutting his skin.

Rhys closes his eyes and tries to unclench the muscles in his shoulder. “Do it,” he grits out, and if his voice is tinged with hysteria, well, there’s no one in this room whose opinion matters.

The first touch of the knife is so cold it burns. Rhys hears a high-pitched keening echoing against the bare concrete walls, but everything is a distant second to the drag of the blade through his flesh and it hurts, it  _ hurts _ . It isn’t until the keening cuts off on a gasp as the knife hits bone that Rhys realizes the noise is him. The Mayor might be saying something to him, but Rhys can’t hear it over the sound of of the blood rushing in his ears, and a furious strum deep in his head that Rhys has never heard before - or maybe he’s heard it every day of his life and never noticed it until now, when the notes are being severed one by one.

There’s an increase in pressure on his right shoulder, then a sudden  _ push _ and Rhys rolls to the left as the tension releases. His ears are full of a deafening ringing and his eyes are full of green - but as he blinks it drains away and he feels lighter,  _ unnaturally _ light, and he gropes desperately at his right shoulder when he can remember how to work his limbs again - 

The Mayor’s knife seems to have done him this favor, at least - the wound is cauterized cleanly. Rhys gulps in air as his fingers prod the empty space where his arm used to be. The building shakes, and the lightbulbs in the room burst in a shower of sparks, but as Rhys blinks the afterimages away he realizes he can still see - silver and green sparks skitter up and down the walls and ceiling in random patterns, casting the Mayor in an unearthly glow of shifting shadows. The Mayor doesn’t seem to have noticed, eyes fixed on the appendage in his hands as he undoes the cuff holding it to the block. As he lifts it in both hands, he looks at Rhys.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, kid,” he says, face stretched in a manic grin. He turns his gaze back to the arm. “Now,” he breathes, “let’s see what you can do.”

The Mayor’s fingers tighten on the arm, and it might be a pain-induced hallucination, but Rhys thinks the arm’s fingers twitch in response.

As if waiting for a signal, the sparks on the wall swirl and converge, heading for the Mayor - heading for the  _ arm,  _ Rhys realizes as he shrinks back. They don’t seem interested in him, though, swerving around him to climb the block, the Mayor, jumping the space between to get to the arm in the Mayor’s hands. A few seconds later the arm itself is the only source of light in the room, and Rhys has to look away as it flashes blindingly bright. 

When he can look back, the Mayor is staring at his hands, which are empty - and  _ silver. _

They’re both still staring when the door blows off its hinges and Jack stands outlined in the doorway.

Rhys has seen Jack angry before, but never like this; Jack’s eyes aren’t just limned in green, they  _ are  _ green, pupil and white and iris swallowed in green fire. As Jack steps into the room a wind comes with him, and although Rhys’ hair and the remnants of his clothes are blown back the Mayor seems unaffected.

“Too late, Lawrence,” the Mayor says, voice overlaid with a static screech that scrapes across Rhys’ nerves. “Too  _ fucking _ la-”

The Mayor cuts off on a choked gasp, one hand flying to his throat, and Jack’s eyes narrow.

The Mayor stumbles back one step, then two, a line of silver creeping above his shirt collar. It slides up his throat, as if searching for something, and when it finds the Mayor’s face it  _ pulses _ and all of a sudden the quicksilver is flowing all over the Mayor’s body, up and into his gaping mouth. The Mayor chokes and gasps, falling to his knees, and as his body starts to shake and his eyes roll back Rhys can see steam escaping from his nose and ears.

What’s left of the Mayor flops forward onto the ground, and it’s inane and not at all what Rhys should be saying right now, but he hears himself ask “how did you do that?”

Jack eyes the pooling silver dripping from the Mayor’s empty eyes and says grimly, “I didn’t.” Jack steps forward, but as if it can sense him coming the silver liquid snakes away from him and down the drain set into the floor. There are a few seconds of silence where Rhys allows himself to hope that it might be over.

He really should have known better.

Distantly Rhys hears a sound like shattering glass, as if the windows have all blown out above them, and as Jack looks up the floor shakes again. Green tendrils of fire that exactly match the shade in Jack’s eyes blow the cover off the drain in the floor, snaking up the pipes on the walls. They circle Jack’s feet but don’t touch him, and when he steps forward they move with him, leaving him a clear path to walk.

Rhys isn’t so lucky.

The tendrils curl around his ankles and wrist and throat, gently at first but with increasing pressure until Rhys is dragged into the air. He tries to pull back, but the lines of fire tighten around him until he has to fight for breath, and all his struggling gets him is hoisted higher in the air until he’s looking down at Jack’s upturned face - and if it were anyone else, Rhys would say that the look on Jack’s face was  _ panic _ , but he’s always kind of thought Jack had left those emotions behind when he made his deal with the City.

In a city he owns so thoroughly and completely - in the city that owns him - what could Jack possibly have to fear?

“ _ Stop it _ .” Jack’s voice rings through the room. “Put him  _ down _ .”

_ <He’s damaged _ .> It’s not something Rhys  _ hears _ , really; it seems to reverberate through his bones, and he realizes that this must be what Jack hears - this must be  _ the City _ , and if he had air for it he would laugh, because doesn’t it just figure, that two seconds from death is when he can finally hear the entity that made him, that’s been controlling his life?

“He’s  _ not _ .” Jack’s voice is a whipcrack, and even through the oxygen-deprived haze Rhys wishes desperately for that kind of surety.

_ <I can’t touch him anymore> _ , and if Rhys didn’t know better he would think the City sounds petulant. < _ He’s  _ **_damaged_ ** . >

“He’ll heal,” Jack says, and his next words steal away what little air Rhys has left. “That’s what people do."

Rhys can  _ feel  _ the City hesitating, and he can’t blame it; Rhys isn’t a person, is he? But that’s what he came here to find out - and Jack seems to believe it, strongly enough for the City to accede in the face of it, anyway. The tendrils around Rhys loosen, and he’s lowered gently to the floor, although when the last coil of green slips away Rhys collapses forward as his legs give way. The tendrils hesitate, coiling just out of reach as if to say,  _ see? _ But Jack eyes them sternly and they slink away, receding back down the drain. The  _ if you say so _ is so loud Rhys can practically hear it - but he  _ can’t _ hear it, not with his ears and not in his bones and that more than anything is what convinces Rhys that the City has let him go.

He’s left in the harsh light flooding in from the hallway as Jack kneels in front of him and grips him by the shoulder, turning his face up.

“What - what the  _ fuck _ were you thinking? You could have  _ died  _ -” Rhys can’t help the laughter bubbling out of him at that, even though it makes Jack scowl. It’s either that or give into the hysteria inside because he  _ knows _ , he  _ knows _ how close he came to not making out of here - and part of him didn’t really expect to. Part of him thought that the City was all that there was, that  _ Rhys _ was a convenient construct, and he hadn’t been able to live with that.

But now he doesn’t have to. He’s  _ free _ \- and it looks like there is a  _ him _ on the other side, after all.

Jack pulls him close and sighs. “You were  _ mine _ ,” he mutters, and there’s something in there that Rhys doesn’t like - something that sounds like  _ defeat _ , and Jack doesn’t let himself be defeated, not by anything.

“Wait - wait, what do you mean,  _ were _ ?” Rhys pushes himself up, and it’s harder with only one arm but he manages. He’ll learn to manage. “I  _ am _ yours, unless -” he falters. “I mean, if you still want me,” he finishes quietly.

He had been doing a pretty good job of not thinking about this part - and part of him hadn’t thought he’d even get this far, so why worry? But if Rhys had had to face the possibility that maybe the City was all he saw in Jack, he had  _ also _ had to think about the opposite - that maybe the City was all Jack saw in Rhys.

He’s taken a lot of risks tonight, but this suddenly feels like the biggest one.

Jack’s still looking at him like Rhys is a puzzle he can’t quite figure out; and that at least, hasn’t changed - Jack has always looked at Rhys like that, since the night they first met.

“ _ Idiot _ ,” Jack says angrily. “Do you think I talk down soul-shattering entities for just anyone?” He pulls Rhys in again and over the rising euphoria in his chest Rhys can hear the pounding of Jack’s heart.

“Of course I still want you,” Jack mutters into Rhys’ hair. “Nothing changes that, kiddo. Not the City, and not you.” He hums for a minute. “I  _ am _ going miss the instant-orgasm button on you, but we’ll work around that.” Rhys laughs in relief, ignoring the pinpricks in the corners of his eyes.

“Come on,” Jack says, maneuvering Rhys to his feet. “Let’s go home.”

_ Home _ . If Jack doesn’t know it yet, Rhys isn’t going to tell him - tonight has been too full of confessions already - but Rhys is relieved to find that this hasn’t changed.  _ Home _ is a lot of things: it’s Jack ‘s steady arm under his on the way out of a deserted City Hall, it’s the flash of streetlights in a familiar pattern on the way back to the townhouse, it’s Jack’s breath settling into sleep beside him.

Home is where Jack is, and to have that - to  _ keep  _ it - Rhys would do it all again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


End file.
